


Clay Sculptures

by damtoti



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Codependency, Hetalia Kink Meme, Itacest, M/M, Sibling Incest, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-15 23:40:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3466346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damtoti/pseuds/damtoti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Because he can't risk seeing his brother be hurt by the world, Veneziano protects him the only way he can."</p><p>Smut and codependency, from the Hetalia Kink Meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clay Sculptures

**Author's Note:**

> (Shameless title edits because I hate titling work)

Romano can’t remember the last time he genuinely felt irritated when Veneziano pushed his bedroom door open and tiptoed to his bed. Now, when Veneziano slips under his covers and curls up beside him, all he feels is relief, safety, and togetherness. He no longer feels the darkness shifting around him, the shadows that followed him from Spain’s wide, empty house.

Veneziano’s arms wrapping around him reminds him that there’s someone who cares, someone who can offer him more love than he needs **,** and all Romano wants to do is sob with relief, cling to Veneziano and settle his head under his chin, because Veneziano is as big as him now—or maybe he’s getting smaller, because his arms no longer wrap around Veneziano’s slim figure the way they used to.

But it doesn’t matter, because Veneziano tilts his chin up, brushes his thumb under his eyes, and then licks the salty wetness. Romano mutters, “Bastard,” although they both know he doesn’t mean it, and when Veneziano leans toward him, he parts his lips obediently.

Veneziano’s lips against his are as soft and warm as his voice, his hands, everything about him. When Veneziano touches him, his fingers move with the gentleness of a musician tuning his finest instrument. His eyes flicker over him, following every cry and gasp that escapes his throat, every twitch and shake of muscles. Romano can feel his skin burning, and rather than risk speaking, he glares at Veneziano and spreads his legs wider.

Veneziano’s face breaks into a smile. “I’ll take care of you, Romano,” he whispers, because he always knows, even when Romano is too embarrassed—too afraid—to say the words, and there are even times when Romano forgets they have two separate minds. Veneziano knows him better than himself, always knows what’s best for him. “I love you so, so much. You’re half of me, and I would do _anything_ for you.” Veneziano takes his hand, gives it a squeeze, and then guides it downward. “And you’ll do something that makes me happy, right?”

When Veneziano’s lips quirk like that, and the corners of his eyes crinkle with that mischievous sparkle, Romano knows he can’t say no. He’ll turn his eyes down and complain, but only a few seconds later he finds himself on his knees with his face pressed between Veneziano’s thighs.

His eyebrows furrow as he sucks, and he exaggerates his facial expressions to ensure Veneziano understands that he _hates_ it, but in reality his heart is quivering because he tastes his brother on his tongue—salty, warm, and _real_ —and he’s closer to Veneziano than anyone has ever been, even Germany. Veneziano wants _him_ , and that’s enough to make his whole body shudder with relief.

Veneziano won’t forget him, not like the others.

And while part of Romano wants to tear away his identity as the _second_ Italy and scream to be remembered, he knows Veneziano’s hushed warnings speak the truth. There is no need for two Italies. Everyone knows it, thinks it, and confronting this reality will only hurt him. His only happiness is here, with Veneziano’s fingers threading through his hair and his gentle, knowing smile reserved only for him.

Veneziano is in the same position—grossly underestimated. He is not weak, incompetent, or subservient, and it brings Romano a surge of pride to see his baby brother take charge with his usual coy grin. “On your back, please,” he whispers. His fingers ghost by Romano’s thighs, urging them apart, and always—before he enters—there’s a soft kiss he leaves by his cheek. “You’re so pretty.”

Romano’s breath escapes in a shudder. He braces himself on his forearms, biting his lip at the sensation of being slowly filled. Veneziano’s hands grip either side of his waist, steadying him, but also squeezing with pressure just short of desperate.

Veneziano’s afraid, just as terrified as him at the thought of being apart, alone, only half. He never strays far from gentle, but there’s a recognizable urgency in the way he bucks his hips against Romano’s. His hand sweeps down and reaches for Romano’s erection. “I’m so proud of you,” he coos, rewarding Romano with a firm stroke that causes warmth to rush up his abdomen. “You made the right choice, staying home.”

Romano curses under his breath to keep from moaning. His fingers are gripping the sheets too tightly for him to touch himself, but Veneziano is doing more than enough for him already. “It—That bad?”

Veneziano's head bobs. “You would have hated it there, the things they all say.”

“Even—Even Spain?” Because even if there’s rationality behind the judgment of Spain’s two-facedness, there hasn’t been a phone call or email or goddamn inquiry about Romano’s disappearance from the political sphere.

Veneziano hums, and then leans forward, repositioning himself over Romano so that they’re cheek-to-cheek. He flicks his tongue against _that strand_ , and Romano inhales sharply. “Let’s not talk about other people! They’re cruel—all of them—and I want you to be happy with me!” Veneziano’s lips close around his curl, and Romano’s nagging curiosity dissipates in favor of the more tactile sensations around him.

Romano closes his eyes and _feels_.

Veneziano’s skin grazing his, so warm and soft and _alive_ in comparison to his own, and the tickle of his lips against his neck, the hot breath ghosting out as he murmurs praises. And when Veneziano angles his hips in such a way, each thrust rocks his stomach over the beading tip of Romano’s erection.

Romano’s unaware that he’s moaning now, dispersing his strained gasps with the occasional curse. His hands are gripping Veneziano’s back and Veneziano is rubbing against him… _everywhere_ , and their bodies are so close, close enough for them to be _one_. Veneziano’s lips are parted over his mouth, their panting breaths mingling, and every word he coos is rich with adoration.

_Perfect._

_Loved._

_Safe._

And while part of Romano wants to duck his head away in embarrassment, he’s aware Veneziano doesn’t need to see the color of his face to know his flattery means the world to him, more than winning anyone else’s approval. He tucks his head into the crook of Veneziano’s shoulder and clenches his fists into tight balls, digging his nails into his own palms to avoid harming his little brother.

He’s coming unraveled into a writhing and whimpering mess, but luckily Veneziano—over the decades, in Romano’s brief moments of unawareness—has changed from his silly baby brother to the more competent of the two, and is more than willing to guide him at his most vulnerable. Veneziano focuses all attention on him, coaxing him with sweet promises, thrusting his hips slowly, lovingly, and with a few clever jerks of his fingers he’s pulled him apart at his own teasing pace.

Romano voice rises in pitch until he’s nearly begging. His hips jerk on their own accord and then he’s coming, hot over Veneziano’s stomach and his own. He’s spent and exhausted, and it’s relieving to fall back, spread open, and entrust his brother with his body. Veneziano presses a kiss on his cheek before resuming his pace. His movements are harsher and a bit more selfish, but his fingers entwine with Romano’s and squeeze and it doesn’t matter so much.

Romano’s content with being needed.


End file.
